


Holly Jollies

by moon_opals



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-17 12:57:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16974999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: Dewey accomplished his goal. He spent a Christmas with his mom.Now, the time to come clean had come. He didn't think there was enough eggnog to save him.





	Holly Jollies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ducksiblingrivalry](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ducksiblingrivalry).



Christmas trees were monumental to Della and Donald.

Quackmore reserved their tree at Pete Pete’s car dealership downtown on Halloween morning, every year, after year. Everyone knew the hour the trees came in, and if you wanted the best price, you’d reserve it on Halloween.

Donald and Della ate at the kitchen table, spooning Frosted Flakey Flakes into their mouths as their dad waited on the line for the receptionist to find Pete. Hortense tore into her breakfast sandwich, glaring at the receiver until the man’s obnoxious tonality rattled the phone..

She snatched it out of his hand and barked into Pete’s ear until an acceptable deal was made, and she handed him back the phone, reminding him they’d meet her at the dealership after school. Slurping sugary milk down their throats, Della and Donald kissed their mom goodbye and ran to the car, honking the horn to remind Quackmore that they didn’t want another tardy.

They’d receive Saturday detention for a fifth tardy.

* * *

Once Christmas Eve’s dinner had been confused, once they’d finished the last of the carols, and once they retired to their rooms, the truth of what happened hadn’t fully settled on Dewey’s brain.

Christmas Eve was spent in merriment. He loved the carols and food and hot chocolate, and The Ghost of Christmas Future was far more spirited than a personification of death had any right to be. No one asked where Future and Mrs. Beakley disappeared to after carols concluded. They retired to their rooms with full stomachs and warm hearts, ready to spend the rest of the holidays in relative comfort.

But not Dewey. He bathed, brushed his teeth, and lied in bed, brain muddled with thoughts. He knew the reason for his season discomfort. He knew he couldn’t remain quiet about it. Not this time. He lied in bed, trying to construct a mental script for every sentence he wanted to say, and for every answer he’d have to give. Huey and Louie were in their shared bathroom, brushing their teeth. It was only a matter of time.

 _I’ll start easy, gently,_ he covered his eyes with his arms, turning on his side. _Give them some time to process it, to take in the new information, and maybe, they won’t be too mad._ His time trip wasn’t entirely planned. He knew this much. He took the opportunity in his lande and despite his deepest dreams, he never believed it’d actually happen. Or more specifically, he didn’t know what to do after it had happened, and he was holding her in his arms.

Louie entered their room, dressed in his pajamas. He rubbed his eyes, dark circles starting to take shape underneath. An early sleeper, late riser, his waking time for Christmas morning was estimated ten to eleven. He and Webby had an ongoing bet, and his 11:30 schedule was likely to win. Dewey didn’t think of the bet or even the Christmas presents waiting under the tree. He twisted his hands into his blanket, unable to fall back down, and Louie yawned, snuggling into his bed right as Huey exited the bathroom.

“I can’t wait for Christmas,” he murmured, softly. “I wonder what Mrs. Bealey will prepare for breakfast.”

The moment Huey climbed to his bunk, sinking beneath his sheets, it’d be it. Dewey’s fear and worry would stitch his lips shut, making it impossible to tell them without consequence. He swallowed the lump in his throat and thought of the most eloquent sentence his brain was able to think of.

“I met Mom!”

“What?”

“I mean...I met her,” he scrambled on top of his bed sheets. “I mean...I saw the ghost and grabbed a cloak and there was a Wendigo and she was there with Uncle Donald.” He rambled off, trying to piece together his seemingly coherent thoughts. Huey and Louie stood and watched, confusion and surprise mixing into a bowl of disbelief.

“I didn’t think it’d happen. Well, I did think it was going to happen. That’s why I did it.” He rambled on, unable to stop his mouth and tongue. “And then it happened, the ball was rolling, and I didn’t want to stop, and when I tried -,”

“What was she like?”

He paused, raising his head to meet their faces. Anger and pain didn’t bristle on their faces, unlike down in Castle McDuck’s dungeons, but there was a tenderness that made his stomach jump. He drummed his knees softly, “What do you mean?”

“Come on Dewey,” Huey scoffed. “We know. When Uncle Scrooge explained what the ghosts were, this was the only viable conclusion.”

Louie shrugged, “We were just waiting for you to come forward with it.” His easy smiled melted Dewey’s worries away, “Glad you didn’t wait for New Year’s.”

With a smile and teary eyes, he shared the truth with his brothers. “What was she like?” He fell about the period of time when she and Donald were their age. Strong willed and sharp minded, she crafted an expert Santa Claus trap. “She did it for Uncle Scrooge.” She cared about her family, more than anything in the world. His memories made him dizzy the more he talked, “Uncle Donald didn’t want to go camping with her for Christmas, and she didn’t like that one bit. Also,” he paused deliberately, keeping them at the edges of the bed, “he called her Dumbella.”

“Dumbella,” Huey exclaimed. This was the most shocking element of the story, not the Wendigo (or its identity), or the fact their uncle also had an affinity for licking random items without an regard for its contents. “Wow,” he mused, tucking a hand underneath his beak, “that’s amazing sibling energy.”

“Yeah, and she wasn’t afraid, not for a single second.” Her annoyance perplexed him at the time, having correctly identified the creature hunting them down. She didn’t hesitate to go on the attack. What a wonder it was, sitting on the side while she and Donald demonstrated teamwork he had dreamt of imitating at Webby’s side.

Louie stuffed a pillow between his legs, resting the side of his head on his palm. “She didn’t want the warning,” skepticism leaked into his question, “because of what? A potential time paradox?”

“It makes sense. Time paradoxes are complicated, and there is no way what would’ve happened had Mom not taken The Spear of Selene.” Huey thought in rapid fire, “Living with Uncle Donald may not have had serious consequences to the time stream, but Mom not getting on the rocket would be tampering, leading to a multitude of unforeseen consequences. They made the right decision when they stopped you from telling them about their futures.”

Dewey gripped his ankles, staring at his feet. “I know it was the right decisions,” he admitted, quietly. “But it doesn’t feel right.” His stomach bloated, possibly due to Christmas ham and stuffing. It’d been the right decision was what he wanted to believe. Huey was a sensible and logical kid. His gentle, soothing tone comforted some of the pain bloating his stomach.

“Yeah,” Louie pouted. “And think of what could’ve happened, the world would probably blow up or something,” he rolled on his side, pillow stuffed in his middle. “You know? You got to meet your and give us some of the info,” he smacked his lips, “she really was about that life.”

“She sounds a lot like Webby,” Huey said.

“Just less pink,” Dewey agreed.

They talked amongst each other, asking questions, making speculations, not knowing someone was standing not too far from their not quite closed door.

* * *

It was a beautifully adorned  tree, as always, and yet, an element was absent. Donald didn’t know what to think, but he smiled, nonetheless.

Della was torn on the tree. Always. One morning she thought it was a beautiful piece of scenery, enhancing the already appealing decorations. She’d pass the same tree the same evening and smear a menacing sneer at it, claiming the tree was a testament to Saint Nicholas debauchery. _“How many elves he worked in his workshop,”_ she accused, pointing to the gold encrusted star at the tree’s top. Her sneer was ridiculous on her child-baby face, and Donald simply shook his head, shaking his present to guess what he’d gotten.

More than a decade had passed since their last christmas together.

It was no good, dwelling on the past. Leaving him with bittersweet memories, Donald turned away, going upstairs to check on the children. Webby was under the covers, comforter concealing the white, curled end tips of her hair. She snored softly. Donald closed the door softly, smiling gently, and went ahead to the boys where a thin, almost dismissible. Knowing his boys, knowing their ways, and hearing the quickly paced murmurs beyond the door, Donald crept quietly towards the door, aligning his back along the wall.

“She sounds a lot like Webby,” Huey said.

“Just less pink,” Dewey agreed.

His stomach lurched forward, painfully. He knew what they were discussing in the solitude of their bedroom, his former bedroom. An image spot of his frantic thoughts sprung at him. With screams and punches, miniature versions of Donald fought in disagreement over what his next action should be. Some cried for him to turn tail and run, to leave the boys to their joyous memories. Others shouted loudly that he was permitted to join them; as their uncle and her twin brother, he was duty bound to participate.

He was not a jittery person, not on principle or by nature, but his fingers trembled. He knew what needed to be done, what should’ve been done a long time ago, and knew the bitter taste filling his beak would settle under a thin, sweet layer of nostalgia.

Donald gulped. He pushed the door forward.

* * *

Their chattering ceased in a moment. Uncle Donald entered warily, not with the usual enthusiasm he was known for, especially since he didn’t knock as they agreed to. No one was willing to bring that up. Not now. Dewey didn’t have it in him to lie, or pretend, or try to lie or pretend. He wasn’t very good at it anyway. Three faces turned to Donald, pensive, concerned, unsure of what to say.

He looked the same. Good. There was a starting point, something to share. “Hi boys,” he grinned, awkwardly. “Um...how...you...oh boy,” scratching his head, he walked to the small group, “I suppose this is where I say you should be in bed now.”

Huey titled his head curiously, stare squeezing into a pointed glare, “Are you?”

“No,” he sighed.

Louie patted his bed, “Alright, come on, tell us all about it.” His mimicry had improved since the last time Donald heard it, and he sighed, taking a seat beside his boy. Soon, Dewey hopped off his middle bunk and landed right next to him, while Huey snuggled on his other side. Louie settled for the middle, which he had silently claimed at age three. No one disputed this.

“So what was she like,” Dewey asked.

“Well…”

“Was she smart?”

“Was she really sharp and observant and -,”

“She was terrible with money.” Donald answered flatly, “And she was always breaking something, a vase, a window, Elizabeth Quackery’s poisoned vial of blood,” he inhaled deeply, staring ahead into the space of his memories. “It took us months to exorcerise her soul.”

“You said she was terrible with money?” Louie pouted, “Uncle Scrooge said she was sharp, observant, strategic -,”

“And terrible with money,” Donald rolled his eyes. “He’d say something like that,” ending his sentence with a chuckle, he danced back, deeper and deeper, “Your mom had poor priorities when it came to spending. She’d use her allowance strictly for adventures, no saving, no accounts. She didn’t start putting anything away until she had you to think about.”

“And did she,” Huey asked.

“What?”

“Think about us?”

“Oh.” This topic held within the subject of his sister had always come up. Always a shadow, looming and foreboding. He didn’t understand, and knew, staring at his bright red, sunny boy that he wanted to understood. “Of course she did, she - she always thought about you,” he pulled him close to him, “the whole trip was about you. For you. I know it looks bad,” there was no denying what the surface revealed, “but I think...I want to believe she had the best intentions.”

This emerged the crux of their strain. Belief. He wavered for years on whether she’d chosen adventure over her family, over her children, over hilm, and as as selfish as this was, him, this cut deeper than anything else. He had promised, all those years ago. He meant to kept it, even if things changed (as was in their nature). He held Huey and Dewey close to him, reveled in Louie’s warmth to his front. There were things they deserved to know - this was one of them. There were others they could wait, wait just a little longer.

This was one of them.

For now, Donald knew it was best for them to believe. To believe in her best, her absolute best, in her love, her absolute love she had for them and their family.

He needed to believe too.

“Your mom loved you,” he quivered. “She was so excited to be a mom. She charted all the places she was going to take you, the civilizations you were going to visit, and the people you were going to meet. She wanted that, for you.”

“We visited Ithaquack,” Dewey said. “Selene said they used to be close, like you and Storkules.”

“Yeah,” Donald mused. “She was insistent on you meeting each other,” speculation peppered corners of his joy, “I don’t know why though.”

“She’s super nice, anyways.” Dewey recalled, “Showed us her sphere and all, super sweet moon goddess lady.”

Donald’s tight lipped expression was one the children couldn’t decipher. It was as if someone had shoved a lemon half into his bill, but sensing their inquisitive stares, he sweetened his expression. He chuckled lightly, “She is one of the less extreme gods,” which was fortunate for them.

Hours passed in bittersweet nostalgia. He answered their questions to the best of his ability. “Yeah, she was a college drop out. She didn’t find it stimulating enough.” He laughed at Huey’s shocked disappointment, and reminded him knowledge was obtained through other means. “It’s hard to accept a professor’s account of the ancient Mayan empire when you’ve seen it with your eyes,” he defended. Other questions were given half-answers, such as the subject of his parents. The dismal details of his parents didn’t need to be withdrawn, and he went forward, “She was stubborn and bossy and terrible with money - Uncle Scrooge always took the wallet from her when we went to markets on our adventures. She’d buy the entire market if he let her.”

They laughed. They sighed. They dreamed. Their dreams were realer than those fabricated stories they told themselves in the dark depths of the night, constantly wondering. Hours passed, and time was an abstract concept to them until Louie’s snores interrupted Donald’s tales.

He took a moment and paused, seeing three ducklings asleep in his arms. He chuckled gently, tucking each one to bed with a sweet kiss to their crown. He closed the door behind him, eyes watery, and he returned to his boat where his hammock awaited.

His chest, somewhat lighter. His load, somewhat easier to bare.

* * *

“And did ye’ leave yer cookies for Santa?” Hortense tucked her fiesty children in their beds and now rested on the edge, ginger smile attempting to calm their excited heartbeats.

Della nodded, “He won’t know what hit ‘im!”

“Oh please, Della,” Hortense scolded. “Donnae tell me ye’ did it again? We can’t afford to hoist the bumblin’ bassa outta the house this year! He’s far too heavy, and yer Da’ won’t like having ta’ explain it ta’ Granny.”

“We’ll call Uncle Eider.” Della pouted, arms crossed. “He’d help.” Donald rolled his eyes in his bed, half-annoyed and half-amused at his sister’s insistence. Hortense laughed weakly, and kissed Della’s forehead, ruffling her hair good naturedly.

“And wot of ye’ Donny?” Cradling his head in her hands, Momma smiled at him, reminding him of the star on their tree. “Did ye’ make sure to exchange the cookies for the right one?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Good boy,” she kissed his cheek. “Ae’ll see yew in the morning,” a flick of the light, and only the pale moonlight illuminated their bedroom.

“Merry Christmas, Della,” Donald snuggled to sleep.

“Merry Christmas, Donald.”

Unbeknownst to Donald, she’d turned to her side, staring out her window. The night sky’s brightest star twinkled and sparkled, with the moon’s luminescence filling the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays! This was for DuckTales Secret Santa 2018.


End file.
